


The Mystery of the Remington No. 6

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fandom Trumps Hate, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hes Really a Flustered Idiot, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, Post Mary, Sherlock Thinks Hes a Stud, What baby? - Freeform, Wishes, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.If wishes were granted on magical typewriters, John Watson would snog Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Happy Birthday!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jazzthecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzthecat/gifts).



> This absurd story is gifted to [Jazzthecat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzthecat) for the [Fandom Trumps Hate](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Fandom_Trumps_Hate_2017) collection. Her donation was incredible and I'm so thankful for it and the opportunity to be involved in such a great cause! Thanks as always to the Extravaganza Squad for the read through and edits. I'd never get anything done without you guys. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a wish.

 

John glanced up, for possibly the fifth time in the last hour, in time to catch Sherlock glance away again. He bristled in irritation, sure Sherlock was doing it on purpose. The man had been acting strange all day, slinking about, more than was usual, suspiciously quiet all morning and into the afternoon, and now he was watching John as if waiting for something specific. There were no experiments about that John could see, so it was something else that occupied Sherlock’s mind. 

 

He was up to something sneaky, John was sure, and that was never a good thing.

 

"All right," John slapped his book down, causing Sherlock to glance up "what is it? You've got me scared to even get up from the chair. What've you done, hmm? Booby trapped the fridge? Scorpions in the breadbox again?”

 

Sherlock reared back dramatically. “I resent the implication-”

 

“Save it. What have you done?”

 

Sherlock looked genuinely hurt by John’s accusation, a look John had seen a thousand times before. He continued to glare until Sherlock dropped the look in favour of launching himself off the sofa and toward his bedroom. 

 

“You are no fun, John Watson,” Sherlock announced upon his swift return, promptly setting a clumsily wrapped gift onto John’s lap. 

 

John took the weight with a huff; it was both heavy and awkward. 

 

“What…” John glanced from the gift, horrid brown paper wrapped in twine, to Sherlock and back. “What’s this for?”

 

At John's query Sherlock instantly went from proud to puzzled. “Your birthday,” he answered, as if it should be obvious. 

 

John’s lips twitched and a familiar rush of affection spread from his chest down toward his fingertips. He stared at the large present until he was sure his face wouldn’t give him away.  

“My birthday isn’t for another three weeks,” he explained gently. 

 

Sherlock bristled - a bird ruffling its feathers. “I know that. Giving it early heightens the surprise.”

 

“Ah,” John cleared his throat, overwhelmed by Sherlock’s thoughtfulness, “well, thank you, I suppose.”

 

“You haven’t even opened it yet.”

 

“Right. Let’s see,” John mumbled, looking over the intricately tied item. It was just like Sherlock to go crazy with the simple act of wrapping a gift. 

 

He stood, present in tow, and moved it to the desk, shoving his laptop out of the way first.  

 

“It’s actually two presents, you see,” Sherlock explained excitedly, “I used a Japanese technique, so the act of unwrapping is a puzzle in itself- No!”

 

John snipped the twine off, scissoring right up the middle, ignoring Sherlock standing distraught over his shoulder. As if John were going to wait the time it was going to take to figure out how to disassemble the bloody thing. 

 

He tugged the remnants away and slowly peeled the paper away. 

 

When revealed, the gift stole John’s breath. 

 

John glanced away once to look at Sherlock, who looked as proud as a new parent. John brushed that thought away and looked back at the shining black and bronze monstrosity. Its buttons had been intricately cleaned of human oils, the base lovingly polished, the typebars glistened and caught the light from the fire. 

 

“Christ, Sherlock, where did you find this? It’s amazing.”

 

“I know a man,” he answered cryptically, but knowing John was going to ask he continued. “He keeps an eye out for things he knows will catch my eye, rare finds, oddities, and gives me first picks.”

 

“Kept him out of jail, then?” John quipped, distracted by the majesty and the hideousness of the antique typewriter before him. 

 

“Something like that,” Sherlock answered softly. “Do you like it?”

 

John smiled, genuinely thrilled with a gift for the first time in a long time. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“I suppose.” Sherlock smirked and bounced on his toes, clearly thrilled with its reception.  “It’s more for show than any practical use but I thought it would make a lovely addition to the flat.”

 

“Quite,” John agreed, running his fingers over the keys, wondering idly who had come to love them before. 

 

“It grants wishes too." 

 

Sherlock spoke with such conviction that John almost didn't catch the statement.

 

“What?" John asked, certain he'd misunderstood.

 

“The typewriter. It grants wishes. Or so says Mr. Harris. He was quite adamant about it."

John stared back at Sherlock in bewilderment, giving a chuckle at the last second and a hearty slap to Sherlock's back. “You are absurd, but thank you. I mean it, this is amazing.”

 

“It’s nothing,” he feigned and then, “Shall we test it?" Excitement glistened clear in his eyes. 

 

“Are you serious? Sherlock, it’s a typewriter, not a magic lamp."

 

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And a lamp would be  _ more _ likely to grant wishes?" 

 

John didn't have a comeback for that. 

 

With no less excitement, Sherlock shoved John down in the chair and positioned the typewriter in front of him. 

 

“Now, in theory it's supposed to grant your heart's desire, so don't over think it. Go with your gut. I trust you know what to wish for."

 

John ran his tongue over the back of his teeth and pursed his lips, amused to no end by Sherlock's new found belief in magic. One of the greatest scientific minds of the 21st century and he was forcing John to make wishes on inanimate objects. 

 

“Triple homicide?" He guessed, teasing.

 

“Why stop at three?" Sherlock quipped right back. 

 

They shared a grin for a brief moment before John shook his head.

 

“You're terrible. I'm not going to murder people with my wishes." 

 

“Worth a shot. How about making Mycroft weigh fifty stone?" Sherlock suggested brightly.

 

John nearly aspirated his own spit. “Good one, but no. It's supposed to be  _ my _ heart's desire, remember? Not yours. It's my bloody birthday." 

 

“It is not. Not for another two weeks," Sherlock pointed out, hands on his skinny hips as if he were informing John of something he'd not known. 

 

“Three," John corrected with a chuckle.

 

Sherlock growled. “Just make a bloody wish already. I paid a small fortune for the damned thing, I want to see the results."

 

John tapped a few keys before pointing out, “You do realize this thing isn't actually going to grant wishes, yeah?"

 

“You don't know that."

 

John rolled his eyes but conceded the argument. “What am I supposed to do? Just type it out?”

 

“I assume so, yes.”

 

“Do we need paper?”

 

“No,” he answered, “Mr. Harris was very clear on that front. Anything typed on paper doesn’t count.”

 

“All right. Suppose it’s sort of like blowing out the candles on your cake and not telling anyone what you wished for.”

 

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock stared at John for a second too long before responding, revealing the fact that he had no idea what John was talking about. Not for the first time, John wondered what the hell Sherlock was doing during his childhood but again came to the conclusion that he didn’t really want to know. 

 

“I suppose before I even begin to entertain this ridiculous idea of yours, I should ask- is this going to be one of those Monkey’s Paw situations?” He received another blank stare. “You know, the Monkey Paw story… where the kid finds a dried out old monkey paw in a shop that grants wishes but it turns out to be cursed. Every wish turns out horrifically wrong?” Sherlock looked intrigued so John went on. “Bloke wishes for money and ends up getting his son killed for the insurance check, or some such. Then the wife wishes him back from the dead but he’s brought back as a shambling, mutilated corpse. Think we can avoid that?”

 

Sherlock blinked for a moment before answering. “I can make no promises about that either way, but remind me I’d very much like to read that story later on.”

 

“Right, so don’t wish for a million quid, gotcha.”

 

“Pfft. Dull.”

 

John looked Sherlock up and down pointedly.  _ Shoes- Yves Saint Laurent, Suit- Spencer Hart, Shirt- Dolce & Gabbana. _ “You  _ would  _ think money was dull.”

 

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“Nothing, you posh git,” the last he whispered under his breath. “Turn around, I’ve got my wish.”

 

“Why have I got to turn around?”

 

“You’re not supposed to know what it is,” John explained slowly. “It won’t come true if you do.”

 

“According to you it won’t come true regardless,” Sherlock pointed out.

 

“According to your antiques dealer, it will,” John shot back with a stern glare. Sherlock huffed and turned on his heels. John snorted at him. “Right, you don’t know the keys by ear or something ridiculous, do you?”

 

He hesitated before answering. “I-”

 

“Nope, fingers in your ears. Go on.”

 

Sherlock groaned pitifully but complied, even going as far as to start humming, some classical number John wouldn’t even guess at the name of. He was still as the dead once he’d decided on abiding John’s wishes, looking a bit like a statue someone had slapped 1700 quid worth of clothes onto. John thought about grabbing his mobile and snapping a picture but it was sitting on the side table next to his chair and he’d never get to it without Sherlock seeing. 

 

“Chemistry is for losers,” John announced, testing the waters. When he received nothing from the maestro, he turned back toward the typewriter. 

 

It was ridiculous but John felt a frisson of unease skate down his spine, just thinking about typing the words into the ancient relic at his fingertips. As if, regardless of the outcome, typing them made it more real than just thinking them. Stupid, but that was how he felt. 

 

Carefully, with perfect precision, John tapped his heart’s desire onto the keys.   

 

_ I wish he loved me the way I love him _

 

When the last key struck the ribbon John waited, breath held, for something to happen. 

 

“Stupid,” he muttered, when, of course, nothing did. Sherlock kept on humming, unaware that John was finished. 

 

“It’s been two hundred and twenty seconds,” Sherlock announced, fingers still in his ears.

 

John sat back against the chair, smiled, and waited for Sherlock to get impatient and give up. It took less than another fifteen seconds for the man to slowly turn his head and peek.

 

“I’m finished,” John stated, grinning at Sherlock’s look of indignation.

 

Sherlock’s arms fell and he gave a great huff. “Well?”

 

“Well what?”

 

“Well, did your wish come true?” 

 

John made a show of looking Sherlock up and down, squinting for extra measure. Sherlock, in turn, jumped as if pinched. 

 

“What did you do?” He growled. “Am I meant to be cleaning now or something?”

 

John snorted. “Should have thought of that,” he mumbled. “Is it too late to change my mind? How many wishes do I get?”

 

That seemed to stump the detective. “I’m not sure. Mr. Harris didn’t say.”

 

“Another try then?”

 

“Wait,” Sherlock cried as John’s fingers poised over the keys once again. “How do we know the last one didn’t work?”

 

“Mmm, because this whole ‘make a wish on a typewriter’ bit is rubbish?”  John asked sweetly. 

 

Sherlock frowned and flopped down in his chair. “You wouldn’t tell me what it was, that’s why it didn’t work.”

 

John gave a great sigh. “Would you like me to make another wish, then?”

 

Sherlock flipped the wrong way round in his chair and smiled. “Yes! Wish for a case, a good one, at least an eight.”

 

“No murders,” John chastised. “That’s just sick.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock grunted, “no murders."

 

“How about smugglers? Smart ones."

 

Sherlock snorted. “If that thing can produce intelligent smugglers it'll be worth the small fortune I paid for it."

 

“Sherlock..."

 

“Don’t be boring, John. I had it to spare."

 

John shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with Sherlock spending a fortune on him but unwilling to argue. It was a fantastic gift, regardless if it granted wishes.

 

“Right. Smugglers it is then." 

 

He placed his fingers back on the keys, Sherlock's gaze steady on him, and tapped.

 

_ A case, smugglers, interesting enough to keep sherlock occupied for at least three days. A little violence is all right as long as no one gets seriously injured _

 

“As long as you get to pummel someone, you mean," Sherlock mumbled. 

 

John cracked a smile. “Shut it." 

 

_ Stop knowing me so well _ , he thought, uselessly.

 

“How long, do you think, before-”

 

John stopped and they both turned, horror movie style, towards Sherlock's ringing mobile.  

 

Sherlock slowly leaned over, without touching, and read the caller id.

 

“It's Lestrade," he breathed, barely above a whisper, fairly vibrating with restrained excitement. 

 

_ Absurd _ .

 

John whispered back, “Answer it." 

 

Gingerly, Sherlock lifted the phone. As soon as he tapped the screen to answer he quickly tapped the speakerphone option. 

 

“Holmes." He held the phone between them so they could listen to Greg's response. 

 

“Hey, Sherlock, you busy?" 

 

John could tell Sherlock appreciated the lack of ‘useless smalltalk'.

 

“Not at all," he answered, “got something for me?" 

 

“Yeah, if you're up for it," Greg's tinny voice answered. “We had a body found last week, standard open and shut, already caught the guy, but now he's saying he'll give up his crew for shorter sentence. Chief doesn't think it's worth pursuing but I thought..."

 

Sherlock looked pensive, curious but not exactly pleased. 

 

"I suppose we could dig around." 

 

“Excellent. The bloke was part of a group of smuggling exotic animals into the country. How's your South African accent?" 

 

Time stopped as the two stared at each other. John let out an hysterical giggle.

 

“Adequate,” Sherlock answered calmly, too calmly. “Lestrade, when did you decide to call me about this? Exactly.”

 

“I don’t know. Been working on it all day. Just got word they didn’t want to pursue Mr. Van Der Hoot’s testimony, figured you’d like a crack at it before we ship him out.”

 

“Yes, of course. We’ll be in shortly.” Sherlock hung up and let his hand fall to the arm of his chair. 

 

They stared blankly at one another for another few seconds before John cracked.

 

“That’s just a coincidence, right? I didn’t actually make a wish come true on a magical typewriter. Did I?”

 

Sherlock drummed his fingers once, glanced over at the magical typewriter, and then shot out of his chair. “Only one way to find out.” 

  
As always, John was one step behind.


	2. The Monkey's Paw Strikes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've done it now, John.

“I cannot believe that happened,” John breathlessly stated, for the hundredth time. 

 

“You’ve said,” Sherlock noted as they dragged themselves up the stairs to the flat. “I did try to tell you. Mr. Harris wouldn’t sell me junk goods.”

 

“Absurd.” John chuckled. “All right, sit down, I’ll get the kit.” 

 

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, gingerly peeling his coat away from his arm, while John headed for the med kit under the sink. He desperately wanted to hit his bed, they’d been up for three days with the bare minimum of sleep, but of course Sherlock had refused medical attention from the ambulance, knowing John would patch him up at home. 

 

John shook his head, concerned over how easily chuffed he was at being needed. 

 

“Let me see.” He scooted closer, helping Sherlock roll his sleeve up to his elbow. The damage was minimal, just barely breaking the skin, but it had to be cleaned. “You’re lucky that coat has lasted as long as it has. Probably saved your life more times than I have.”

 

“Not luck. I bought it for just that reason. Durability.”

 

“And pockets.”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock quirked a smile and John had to look back down, focus on the task at hand. He gently dabbed at the bite mark with his alcohol wipe, pressing here and there to gauge damage between the tendons. Of course he was all too aware of the play of muscle under his fingers, the quiet strength in Sherlock’s forearm, the way it tapered down, allowing him to do unbelievable thing with his fingers. Even at rest John could feel the simmering energy just below the warmth of Sherlock’s skin. 

 

To fill the sudden quiet of the room John muttered, “We’ll have to keep an eye out come full moon.”

 

He glanced up from under his brow to see Sherlock frown at him.

 

“Were-Ocelot,” he dead-panned.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as John knew he would, but did nothing to temper his grin. 

 

“Ridiculous,” the man responded, snickering when John let out a high-pitched giggle.

 

John patted Sherlock lightly to say he was done. “I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t even notice if you did suddenly turn into a cat.” Sherlock frowned as he rolled his sleeve back down. “Let’s see: you’re arrogant, you act out for attention, you’re fastidious, lazy, curious, lethal, and, if it were even remotely acceptable, I think you’d hiss at every person you meet.”

 

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table and glared. “Not everyone.” John raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps Mycroft.”

 

“Just so.” John scooped up his kit and deposited it back under the sink. He turned and glanced into the sitting room, eyeing the typewriter warily, and then shaking his head at the absurdity of the last three days.  

 

“You can’t still doubt its power after everything.” 

 

John stared at Sherlock’s ocelot bite and shrugged. “I guess not.”

 

Sherlock muttered, “Makes you wonder why the first one didn’t work.”

 

John gave a wan smile and another shrug, but inside his stomach dropped painfully.  _ Because it’s always been impossible _ , he thought.   

 

Sherlock mirrored John’s casual shrug, but it set off warning bells in John. Sherlock was surely not going to give up on finding out what John had wished so easily, not after that display before Lestrade’s call. 

 

“Let’s save the Mystery of the Remington Number Six for another day, shall we?” John suggested. “I’m tired.” He moved from the kitchen to the sitting room, dropping into his chair, steadfastly ignoring the lingering tendrils of sadness from his unanswered wish.

 

“All right. Tomorrow then. Tea?” Sherlock asked, leveling himself up and heading for the kettle. John turned in his chair to watch him move about the room. 

 

“Sure. Take-out?” He eventually asked. Sherlock looked up with an agreeable smile. 

 

A half-hour later, they were sat on the sofa together with their styrofoam containers, watching Chatty Man and snarking over the guest’s obvious discomfort with the current line of questioning. 

 

John lived for these quiet moments as much as the loud and dangerous ones. Sherlock didn’t do this with anyone else, not even Mrs. Hudson. It was enough, he told himself. It was more than John thought he’d ever have again. 

 

When Sherlock yawned, John decided it was time for bed. 

 

“We’re both knackered. Give me your container, I’ll put it away.” John stood and held his hand out.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, handing it over. “I’m for bed then. Shopping in the morning?”

 

John halted in the doorway and looked back. “You asking if I’m going?”

 

Sherlock blinked. “Are  _ we  _ going?”

 

John blinked back. It had been years since they’d last gone together. But all right, he wouldn’t argue. He smiled and agreed, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

“Good.” Sherlock nodded, gave a small smile, and then walked past to head towards his room. 

 

John just shook his head with a chuckle.  _ Strange man. _

 

He brushed his teeth and headed off to bed, craving oblivion after the whirlwind of the last few days. His bed was cool and welcoming as he fell into it, and he was asleep almost immediately. 

 

Due to so many years in the military, John had the ability to fall into REM sleep fairly quickly. Thus, when Sherlock came barging into his room five minutes later, John was dreaming of ocelots doing their accounting in his childhood bedroom. 

 

“Christ!” John shot upright in bed when his door banged against the wall and flinched when he found a shadow in the doorway. 

 

The shadow flew into the room and John tensed up all over again until he recognized the shape of Sherlock’s housecoat flying out behind him and then the smell of his cologne as he flopped down on John’s bed.  

 

“What the hell are you doing?” He turned his head away when Sherlock flipped on the bedside lamp, blinking in the sudden brightness. When his eyes had adjusted he turned back to find Sherlock looking crazed.

 

“What did you mean?!” Sherlock hissed. “Did you mean to say I’ve been obvious, because I haven’t. I’ve done my utmost to keep these things from you. If you’d suspected something I would know, wouldn’t I? Yes, I’m sure of it! So what does this mean? John!  _ What does this mean?” _

 

John stomach plummeted as he identified the object Sherlock waved in his face. It was the ink ribbon from the typewriter. 

 

His eyes shot to Sherlock’s in horror. 

 

What was he to do now? Sherlock knew. Or, going on the man’s obvious confusion, he was attempting to work it out. 

 

“Or,” Sherlock hesitated, leaned forward a fraction, “did you mean… Is it possible you meant that you…” There was a pause so full of tension John felt as if his limbs might have fled his body in terror. “...You think I don’t feel as strongly?”

 

John froze, unable to form words. ‘What?’ he wanted to ask, or possibly, ‘You feel strongly...about me?’ But nothing coherent would exit his gaping maw. He dropped his eyes and tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He wasn’t near ready to confront this yet. It had been a year since everything with Mary, since he’d entertained spending the rest of his life happily by Sherlock’s side, and still he couldn’t imagine Sherlock ever finding out the depth of his feelings. 

 

Slowly, as if unsure, Sherlock’s hand crept into John’s line of sight, to alight gently on top of John’s wrist. It was warm, calloused, familiar even in its rarity. 

 

“Please, John,” Sherlock whispered softly. John looked back up to see Sherlock pleading with his expressive eyes as well. “What does it mean? Do you…” 

 

John swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “If I do? What then?” 

 

He’d had to look away, the questioning stare was too much, but he soon found himself looking back forcibly as Sherlock grasped his face in both large hands and pulled him forward. 

 

“Mmmrrmphh,” John squeaked as their lips met. His eyes slammed shut on instinct, but that only resulted in heightening the feel of Sherlock’s lips against his, softer than he would have guessed, but firm, certain of their welcome. Was he welcome? 

 

Yes. Desperately so. 

 

John made a hungry noise and pulled, leaning them down supine in the bed, rolling until he could press his weight down onto his flatmate. Sherlock’s hands left John’s face to slide down his back, pulling him closer. John groaned when Sherlock’s legs widened to allow him between. Anger threatened to distract John when he realised he was quickly losing feeling in his extremities, a tingle in his blood that only grew. Sherlock had just opened his mouth to allow John’s tongue entrance when an intrusive thought occured. 

 

_ Why? _

 

It was enough to pull John back for a second. A second was all it took for him to glance at Sherlock. A glance was all it took to see Sherlock’s dazed and elated face. 

 

“Oh god,” John bemoaned the evidence before him. He jumped up, flung himself at his housecoat, wrapping it tightly around his frame. It wouldn’t do to have this conversation with his still throbbing erection between them. 

 

“John?” Sherlock sat up and blinked at him, confused but still with that soft look of amazement. 

 

John felt his face scrunch up in pain as the reality of the situation took hold fully. He paced the length of his room, fidgeting as he went, groaning mournfully.

 

“This will teach you, you stupid sod. Wishing on bloody antiques! Well you’ve done it now, are you happy?” John cried, berating himself for his stupidity. 

 

Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly. “John.”

 

“Not now,” John waved him off, “I’m thinking.” He continued to pace the floor, skirting the dirty clothes and the book he’d dropped off the side of the bed some nights before. Maybe he could wish Sherlock back to normal. Lord knew he couldn’t take him like this, under the spell of some ancient devil machinery, only able to stomach kissing John because a bloody typewriter worked a spell on him. “Agh, this is the worst thing that could’ve possibly happened.” 

 

“John,” Sherlock called again, humour apparent in his voice. 

 

John looked up to find Sherlock lounging against his pillows, one arm propped up supporting his head as he watched John pace, an amused smile curling his full lips. John’s cock gave a half-hearted pulse at the sight. 

 

“Come back to bed, you fool,” he commanded next, fulfilling years worth of John’s sexual fantasies. 

 

John snapped, “Shut your damn mouth! You got me into this mess!” He pointed severely, underscoring his point with another growl. “Or got me to get you into this mess… whichever. It doesn’t matter, just shut up.” He went back to pacing, Sherlock went back to watching, that small smile still in place. Eventually John stopped stealing glances to stare full on. 

 

“What?!” He shouted, belatedly thinking of Mrs. Hudson downstairs. 

 

Sherlock’s smile grew into a full blown grin. “You think the typewriter did this.”

 

“Yes, obviously.” John tugged his housecoat tighter. “You’d never have done what you’ve done in a million years otherwise.”

 

An elegant eyebrow rose. “A million? No. The last three or four though… perhaps. If I’d known for certain you’d reciprocate.”

 

John blinked, looked down at the floor, glanced at his desk, and then back over at the bed. “What?”

 

“You really don’t know? I took pains to keep it from you but I thought you’d at least find it obvious after having it pointed out to you.”

 

“Having what pointed out to me?” John whispered. His left hand flexed at his side.

 

Sherlock looked John dead in the eye and said, “That I’ve been in love with you for some time.”

 

Blood rushing in John’s ears made it hard to be certain he’d heard correctly. Logically, or he supposed, illogically, he knew the bloody typewriter was still in play, causing Sherlock’s certainty, but the words still had an effect on John’s equilibrium. 

 

He’d waited years to hear them after all.  

 

John shook the hope off like a blanket of snow. “No, you only  _ think  _ you’ve been in love with me. Remember? Lestrade thought he’d had that case on his desk all day!”

 

Sherlock flopped inelegantly back against John’s pillows and stared up at the ceiling, frustrated perhaps. A smile still played gently around his mouth, though, so perhaps not. 

 

“Nothing I say will convince you otherwise, I suppose. Anything I tried to explain would be brushed aside as a product of the birthday wish. I wonder...”

 

John flinched. “What?” He asked, wary. 

 

He sat back up, giving John the sole of his focus; a look that never failed to send an anticipatory shiver down John’s spine. 

 

“You believe I’m not in my right mind, correct?”

 

John snorted. Wasn’t that the statement of the century. “Are you ever?”

 

“That’s neither here nor there. I mean tonight, right now, this,” he waved between the two of them, “out of my hands, right? I have no choice but to find you irresistible. I’m overcome with my feelings of love and lust. Hmm?”

 

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. It seemed like a loaded question. “I wouldn’t want to put words in your mouth,” John answered lamely, shuffling his heel against the worn rug under his bed.  

 

Sherlock’s voice, already absurdly deep, dropped as he responded, “Believe me, John, if you weren’t provocating, we would long since have disrobed and continued where we’d left off.”

 

John’s hold on his libido had never been rock solid, but he found it melting into a puddle at his feet at such conviction. He gulped visibly, trying his best to stand tall against the power Sherlock wielded. “I can’t… We can’t, Sherlock. It’s not right.”

 

“I’m impressed with your willpower, you know. Very moral highground of you.” 

 

“I’m going to wipe that smirk right off your face. With my fist,” John added, lest Sherlock get the wrong idea.

 

“As I was saying, since you’re under the impression that I can’t control my newfound impulses, why don’t we run a small experiment and test your hypothesis?”  

 

John’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I’m not one of your bloody experiments!”

 

A frown appeared on Sherlock’s face, a clear sign that John, once again, was not following his train of thought. Nothing new there. He sat up, placing his bare feet on the floor, and approached John at a short clip.

 

John, for all his bravery, slid backwards, only stopping when his back met the opposite wall.

 

“John,” Sherlock growled.

 

“Yes?”

 

“How would you say you love me?” At this, John’s gaze slid down to floor, to the black ribbon that had incriminated him. “Come now, that’s not still in debate, is it?”

 

“I suppose not, no,” John admitted in a low voice, reluctant despite the evidence spooled at their feet. 

 

“So, then, how would you say you love me?” Sherlock mirrored John’s low whisper, turning the moment into a quiet, intimate affair, more so than it had been already. “With patience I imagine. Wouldn’t you say?”

 

John had quickly become distracted by Sherlock’s warm presence, so close and familiar, so his words spun around his head for a dizzy moment before settling. 

 

He shook his head of the spell. “Yes, I- I suppose that is a good description.”

 

Sherlock’s smile was small, soft. “Then I suppose I’m bound by the laws of the typewriter to reciprocate in kind.”

 

With that cryptic remark, Sherlock slid just a hair’s breadth shy of John’s lips, before quitting the room. 

  
John blinked in confusion.  _ What the hell? _


	3. Is this a date?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit not good, Sherlock.

The next morning, or rather, later that same day, John came down from his room to find Sherlock already dressed for the day, looking no different than any other, nibbling a honey slathered piece of toast. Expecting to be molested immediately, John was semi-disappointed to find Sherlock nearly ignoring him, with the exception of his request that John to top off his coffee - a grunt and an outstretched hand - as he continued to peruse his mobile. 

 

Normal in every way.

 

He was more baffled than he’d been hours before. The lack of sleep after Sherlock had fled the room probably hadn’t helped John’s frame of mind, but he couldn’t help mulling over the events after the fact. Sherlock - in love with John. What a thought. What a blessing and a curse. 

 

But now, to come downstairs to such a normal sight, John was uncertain he hadn’t dreamed the whole event. 

 

“No.”

 

“Hmm?” He glanced up from his mug to see Sherlock’s head cocked back and up at him.

 

“I assure you, I am still very much in love with you.”

 

John’s stomach dropped, flipped and then lay down to die. “Ah.”

 

“Problem?”

 

“Ah…” 

 

“Articulate as ever,” Sherlock teased, still thumbing through his phone. “I’ll be here whenever you parse your feelings. Got a bit of research to do on big cat rehabilitation. Mind if I borrow your laptop? Mine’s got dehydrated cobra venom on it.”

 

Unable to remember what he’d been about to say, or, in truth, which part he should address first, John’s mouth opened and shut unattractively before he eventually answered, “Sure. Take mine.”

 

“Thanks.” Sherlock slipped from the table with his usual grace and flopped onto the sofa with John’s computer on his belly. 

 

John watched from the doorway, unsure what he was waiting for exactly, but this quiet, domestic normalcy was not it. 

 

“We’ve the shopping to do, remember,” Sherlock called out when John finally turned back toward the kitchen. “If you were going to attempt breakfast.”

 

“Didn’t even leave me a slice of bread,” John grumbled and then whispered under his breath, “Being in love hasn’t made you any more considerate, I see.”

 

“Not as such, no. So sorry.”

 

John tried not to grin and failed. If Sherlock was going to play it cool, John could as well.  _ Maybe that will make this all go away _ , he thought to himself. “Right, well, I’ll see to the shopping. You can stay and finish your research.”

 

Sherlock looked up. “You’re sure? I was going to come.”

 

John headed for the stairs and called out, “It’s fine. Any requests?”

 

“Acetone and a better quality hair dryer!” He called back.

 

John chuckled to himself, letting the affection so natural to him bubble up, despite the danger to his newly wary heart. He dressed quickly and bounded back down the stairs. “I meant any food requests.”

 

“Oh.” He seemed to ponder this while John sat and pulled his shoes on. By the time his jacket and accessories had been gathered Sherlock had an answer. “Garlic knots. Chocolate covered coffee beans. An orange.”

 

John blinked at his flatmate, used to his ridiculous requests but always surprised. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock answered softly, returning to the laptop.

 

John bounded down the stairs, out the door, and made for the corner before collapsing against the stone edifice. What the hell was going on? The world was spinning on, women pushing prams, men jogging in lycra shorts, elderly couples arguing over dinner plans, and meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson and John Watson was having a nervous breakdown. Didn’t anyone else know what was going on? Couldn’t at least Mycroft sense it somehow with his preternatural ways?

 

He glanced down the street, half expecting a black car to pull up to the curb; for Mycroft to jump out and demand what had John done to his previously cold and calculating baby brother? 

 

It was absurd, he knew. Of course Sherlock cared for John, that much had been clear for awhile. Since his return from death at least, since Mary and all that had come from her meddling. Sherlock had proven time and again that he was capable of great selflessness, but that had never, not once to John’s knowledge, translated into love, romantic love. Despite what Mary had thought, admitted to thinking there at the end, it wasn’t in the cards for them, Sherlock didn’t feel that way. But… if the typewriter had granted John’s wish… wouldn’t Sherlock be arse over tit in love? Love Potion Number Nine style obsessed? Insatiable? 

 

Just the thought sent a shiver of remembered desire down John’s spine.

 

He remembered all of it, of course, every lick and every caress, despite how fast it had all gone and his complete shock. But after, standing in front of the doorway, Sherlock had said something, ‘How do you love me, John? With patience…’ Was that it? He was loving John the way that John had asked, exactly as he loved Sherlock - quietly, softly, with the patience he’d honed after years of being rejected and none of the urgence he’d felt in the beginning.  

 

What the hell was he supposed to do about that? Jog back up the stairs and scream, ‘Quit pining quietly and snog me, you bastard!’ 

 

No, that was his cock talking. 

 

The more insidious voice was that of his long-abused heart, softly insisting that he could have everything he’d ever wanted, if only he let go of the tight rein on his morals. John could have his exhilarating chases and his quiet domestic nights in, all wrapped up together in the kind of love that people wrote about in fairytales. But no, he couldn’t take Sherlock like that. Despite his insistence to the contrary, it  _ was  _ against his will and that was abhorrent. That wasn’t Sherlock and it wasn’t John.

 

John listened to the sound of his hair scraping the stone as he rolled his head back and forth. Normally, in a situation like John’s current one, seemingly impossible, he’d bottle it up and ignore the problem until it went away, but that didn’t seem like a viable option. If he could talk to someone, anyone, perhaps he could get some sound advice, but who in their right mind would believe him? If they did they’d be no use as a sane individual to receive advice from, that was certain.  

 

“You wished on a magical typewriter and now Sherlock is arse over tit in love with you? Oh, how marvelous! Cheers!”

 

John stepped away from the building and marched on toward the shops, mumbling as he went.

  
  


Mrs. H was just stepping out of a taxi a half hour later as John rounded the corner with the shopping. She waited for him in the doorway with a less-than-jovial smile. John immediately got his back up, now certain Sherlock had told her something unfortunate and she was about to give him some unsolicited advice. 

 

He raised his brow at her as she held the door open for him to pass, letting her know he was waiting for whatever she wanted to wag her chin about.

 

“Oh, John, don’t give me that look,” she admonished, “as if you’re about to be punished for staying out late. I’m well aware I’m not your mother.”

 

“I didn’t say it.”

 

She clicked her tongue at him. “I’m just worried about him, is all. I don’t even care what you’re fighting about this time, just... “

 

John stopped his lazy ascent to really look at her when she paused. “What makes you think we’re fighting?” He asked, nervous.

 

She walked closer and lowered her voice with a glance at the ceiling. “He was smoking out back this morning, dear. It’s been months since the last time, since… well, you know. I’m just worried about him, is all,” she reiterated with a tug on her blouse. “He must have smoked the whole pack on my back porch, stuffed the lot of it into my hedges, as if I wouldn’t see, the beast.”

 

It tugged John in two different directions, the image of Sherlock huddled outside on Mrs. Hudson’s back step, nervously puffing away while John lay nervous in his own bed above on the other side of the house. It was easy for John to forget how Sherlock’s confident facade was sometimes just that. 

“It’s all fine, Mrs. H. I’ll find out what’s wrong, get him straightened out.”

 

She reached up and patted his arm. “Be good to each other.”

 

Her gave her a wan smile and finished the trek up the stairs. 

 

Of course Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to help with the shopping, nose practically pressed up against the screen of John’s laptop still, but John had thought he’d at least get an acknowledgment at his return. 

 

“I’m making shrimp linguini,” he announced to the lump on the sofa, with no response.

 

The ingredients were set out according to prep necessity and John lost himself in the familiar act of preparing dinner. Things boiled and were chopped, the sound and smells helping to distract him from everything he still wasn’t prepared to deal with; possibly garnering him another twenty minutes of respite from decisions. 

 

“Did you get my orange?”

 

“Jesus!” John spun round to find Sherlock directly behind him. “Mrs. H is right, you need a bell.”

 

“Did you get my orange?” He repeated as if John hadn’t spoken. 

 

John rolled his eyes but tossed Sherlock his bloody orange from the counter. He mumbled to himself, “You’re lucky I don’t lob it at your head.”

 

“What about my coffee beans?” Sherlock asked next, talking around an already peeled wedge of fruit. John was mildly impressed with Sherlock’s dexterous fingers. 

 

“Not until after dinner,” he said with finality. 

 

Sherlock didn’t answer but that didn’t mean John wasn’t going to keep one eye on his flatmate while he finished cooking; he was well versed in Sherlock’s slight of hand abilities. Of course keeping one eye on Sherlock meant John had to witness the ridiculous sight of said hands being licked clean of orange juice once said flatmate was finished with his snack. John was not pleased with this in the least, and kept his guard up for further attempts to distract him. It wouldn’t do to dump boiling water down his front or slice his finger off while chopping carrots. 

 

“Have we still got that bottle of Chablis?” John asked as he rooted through the cabinets. 

 

“We had a bottle of Chablis?”

 

He crouched to search under the counter. “Yeah, from Anderson’s birthday party.”

 

“We didn’t go to Anderson’s birthday party,” Sherlock said, as if John didn’t know.

 

“Yes, which is why we should still have a bottle of- Ah ha! Found it. One of us managed to wedge it behind the…”

 

“Don’t blame me, I didn’t even know you’d bought him a gift. I never had any intention of going to the party. You should have known that.”

 

John ignored him, too caught up in his own late epiphany that he’d been manipulated by Sherlock yet again. He’d asked for the orange so John would have to watch him peel and suck on the stupid thing, the garlic knots insured John would pair them with something Italian - obvious now that he had the bottle of wine in hand - and what the chocolate coffee beans were for he could only guess but it was clear they served some insidious purpose, some way to insure John let his guard down. 

 

He set the bottle down onto the table on his way into the sitting room. The sodding typewriter gleamed from the desk, mocking him for being an idiot yet again. He ignored the scrape of Sherlock’s seat in the kitchen and, as quickly as he could, bent to type  _ ‘I wish for things to go back to normal.’  _

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered from the doorway. “Did you really?”

 

“Yep.” He looked Sherlock over. “Feel any different?”

 

The blighter let out a put upon sigh. “Still hungry if that’s what you mean.”

 

“It’s not and you know it.” He crossed his arms and waited, for what he didn’t know, but something that would indicate his flatmate had returned to his usual, less amourous, self. “The coffee beans were a nice touch,” John said. “I suppose strawberries and cream would have been too heavy-handed.”

 

“You probably wouldn’t even have noticed. That bottle of wine was the tipping point and  _ you  _ chose that.”

 

“Yeah,  _ I’m  _ the romantic! You manipulated me into cooking Italian!”

 

“So?” Sherlock retorted childishly.

 

John stomped his foot. “So? So, our first dinner was Italian, which you know perfectly well.”

 

“John,” he chided as if John were being ridiculous, “Italian is not inherently romantic, only assigning sentimentality to it makes it romantic, and, again, you did that, not me.”

 

“All right, if you had no ulterior motives for dinner, why don’t you swear to it? Swear on my life you weren’t trying to manipulate me into turning this into a date.”

 

He waited but Sherlock merely glared at him from across the room.

 

“As I thought.” John nodded once, smugly. “Still feel like sitting down to a nice, romantic dinner?”

 

“Not  _ now _ ,” Sherlock grunted, arms crossed, pouting as hard as he’d ever done. If John hadn’t been between him and the sofa he was sure Sherlock would have flopped down and given him the cold shoulder. The question was- was this Sherlock the Heart-Broken or Sherlock the Suddenly-Thwarted? 

 

“You know what I mean, Sherlock. Did the bloody wish work? Any lingering amorous feelings?”

 

A glare transformed Sherlock’s face briefly, as if he was warring internally with saying forget the whole bloody night and slapping John across the face. John thought getting slapped was the more likely scenario considering Sherlock was advancing on him as fast as his considerably long legs could carry him. John backed up until he bumped into the desk.

 

“Despite the fact that you’ve attempted to thwart me at every turn since last night, I love you now more than I have ever done. My love for you increases three fold every year. I estimate by the time we retire I’ll be able to live off your presence alone, without food, shelter, or even cases.”

 

John gulped. Sherlock’s eyes stayed locked on so John couldn’t look away, but despite that Sherlock seemed to glean from John’s brain that he was thinking that the typewriter was on the fritz, somehow turning his first wish on full blast while ignoring the third altogether.

 

Because Sherlock snapped, “Oh, forget the sodding typewriter,” and grabbed John round the sides of his head. He was pulled up onto tiptoes, Sherlock meeting him in the middle, and John found himself snogged within an inch of his life. It was different than last night, more aggressive, a claiming, Sherlock was saying without words that if John was going to continue to prevaricate he was simply going to take what John refused to give. He should have shoved Sherlock away with all his strength.  He gripped Sherlock round the waist and held on as tight as he could. 

 

“Why are you fighting me?” Sherlock breathed against John’s lips, resting his forehead against John’s.

 

John breathed out, elated and exhausted both. “Fine. Fine, you bastard. I give up.”

 

Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed. Before John could parce why they weren’t snogging again, Sherlock backed away, prying John’s fingers away from his waist with a finality that was jarring. 

 

“Sherlo-”

 

“Don’t!” He turned away with a hand in the air. “Just don’t.”

 

“What… Sherlock, wait, please!” John desperately called out when Sherlock moved to don his shoes. “Please, don’t go,” he begged, grabbing the man firmly by his wrist. 

 

Sherlock tugged but John wouldn’t let go. “This is pointless,” he snarled. “You will never see…”

 

“See what?” John demanded when Sherlock trailed off.

 

“Me!” He bellowed, face red and eyes going glassy. “Everything I’ve done, everything we’ve been through, you’ll  _ never  _ understand. No matter what I say or do, you are so willfully blind to it. I thought… I thought if the sodding typewriter gave me an excuse to act on my feelings, you would see how obvious it’s all been...but… Now you only see deception. I don’t want you to give up because it’s too hard to fight me. I want you to see that it’s been there all along.  _ Why can’t you see? _ ” He pleaded.

 

“Because I couldn’t.” John looked Sherlock in the eye and admitted aloud the truth of his feelings for the first time. “Every time I tried, for even a second, to read into your motivations I was either slapped down or reminded in some way that you didn’t do that. Love. Relationships.” He let go of Sherlock’s arm and paced away, sure Sherlock was listening and wouldn’t leave as long as he kept talking. 

 

“You have no idea the walls you have built up around yourself, Sherlock. I tried, I really did try to scale them, but in the end, when you  _ left…  _ You made me think it was for nothing. When you returned, it was too late. Even if Mary hadn’t been there, you made me think my loving you didn’t amount to anything.”

 

“But I’ve already explained-”

 

John held up a hand to stop him. “I know. I know that now, but it wasn’t easy to let go of that truth. And building trust again, all of it, it was so hard, Sherlock. So, yes, I’m sorry if you’ve been obvious and I haven’t noticed, but for god’s sake! You trained me that way! I couldn’t live in a world where the smallest kindness or the biggest might mean you loved me back, because if I was wrong,  _ again _ , it would kill me. Don’t you understand? I don’t deserve true love. It just doesn’t happen for me.”

 

The full weight of Sherlock’s stare fell on John, tearing him to pieces. 

 

“You’re right about one thing,” he said after a moment. “I do take responsibility for pushing you away.” He walked toward John, stopping just shy of looming. “But do not ever try to convince me that you do not deserve love, John Watson. I will not concede that.” John opened his mouth, to argue or complain, he wasn’t sure which, but Sherlock cut him off. “Do you want to know why I manipulated you into making dinner? This dinner?” He gestured into the kitchen. “I have had many regrets in my lifetime, and plenty of time to think on them, but one of my greatest mistakes was telling you I was married to my work.” He let John ponder that for only a second before continuing. “I worked it out, backwards through our friendship, to that moment. How different things might have been if I’d admitted to being intrigued by you. You were a puzzle, a broken toy I was happy to fix, a useful helpmate to follow behind during the work, and I’d nearly convinced myself that was all. But… In that moment, when you so obviously questioned my status, I briefly entertained the idea of more. If I’d come to a different conclusion then, if I’d imagined a world in which you were to become the most important person in my life, what then?”

 

John’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. “You were, what, trying to recreate that night? Dinner?”

 

Sherlock gave the tiniest of nods and John’s heart broke and mended within the space of a second. It didn’t matter that Sherlock had attempted to manipulate him into dinner, nor that he might be under the spell of a mystical typewriter, all that mattered was Sherlock’s belief. And it clearly broke his heart that John was unwilling to allow himself to be loved. Not only were his walls well and truly down now, it was as if the idea of recreating that night was the exact thing John needed to move forward. Reset the clock, as it were.

 

“Well, I’d say we’ve effectively ruined dinner,” he mused. Sherlock nodded again, looking pathetic. He left Sherlock standing in the doorway to turn the oven and stove off. The salad was placed in tupperware and shelved in the fridge. The bottle of wine was put away. He walked back into the sitting room, stood in front of his flatmate and proposed, “What do you say we do it right this time and go to Angelo’s?”

  
Sherlock’s eyes focused on him, searching for clues. John held out his hand.


	4. Snickers and Jitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now _this_ is a date

Sherlock looked wound tight enough to snap. They sat in their usual spot, London to one side, the rest of the room to the other. John had settled in comfortably, candle and all - Sherlock had not. He squirmed, twisting about in his seat to look out the window and then over at their fellow patrons. 

 

“Are you going to be alright?” John asked, trying his best not to smirk. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock spit, “of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

John sipped casually from his glass of water. “Dunno. Could be first date jitters. Happens to the best of us.”

 

His shoulders went back almost instantly. “I do not get  _ jitters _ ,” he growled.

 

“Of course not.” John was reminded of the wedding, Sherlock in charge of passing John the wedding ring to give to Mary. He’d fumbled with it, nearly dropping it to the floor, which everyone had thought was adorable. John had assumed Sherlock was simply nervous. He’d always hated being under a spotlight not of his choosing. But now, through the lense of ‘I’ve loved you for years’, it was possible to see it as Sherlock’s reluctance in giving John away. Christ, what an awful thought. He felt bad for teasing about it now. Along with a whole mess of other things.    

 

The waiter arrived while John was reminiscing. They ordered dinner, risotto for Sherlock, linguini with clam sauce for John, and sat in a somewhat comfortable silence until it arrived. While Sherlock played with his, John ate slow and steady, not wanting to overstuff himself too quickly. It might be wishful thinking but if all went well he’d not want an uncomfortably full belly for the next phase of their night.

 

“Let’s see,” John mused aloud, “we’ve already established Mycroft’s role in your life.”

 

“Tell him that, please,” Sherlock grumbled in a dry clip, staring partway out the window.

 

Chuckling, John continued. “And let’s assume any and all other arch-nemeses are out of the foreseeable future.”

 

“I dread to even think it. How dull that would be.”

 

“Ignoring that.” John glared, good-natured but with a hint of ‘please push my buttons’. “What came next?”

 

Sherlock finally turned away from his imaginary sentry duty to stare John full on. His gaze wandered John’s face, possibly searching for a hint as to John’s commitment to the game.  John urged as sincerely as possible with his body language. Eventually, eyes holding onto John’s, he answered, “You bumbled your way through a disastrous chat-up and I gave my standard, equally disastrous dismissal.” 

 

A snort escaped John’s nose. “I really wasn’t trying-” Sherlock smiled, small and teasing, and so John waved it away. “Fine, I admit to being inappropriately curious but I’m really not so terrible at chatting people up. I’ll have you know-”

 

He stopped when Sherlock’s smile grew until he was beaming, obviously shy and trying to hide it but failing beautifully. John couldn’t help but laugh and grin alongside him, despite not knowing why he was so happy. 

 

“What?” He asked.

 

“People. You said people, chatting up  _ people _ .” Sherlock figeted happily, in on his own private joke. When it became obvious John wasn’t following along he elaborated, softly explaining, “That’s the closest you’ve gotten to coming out, John. With that delightfully ambiguous statement you specifically admitted to chatting up more than just women. Congratulations.”

 

“I- Um,” John felt a flutter in his gut and had to take a moment to parse it before going on, “yeah. Cheers?” He laughed, deciding that, yeah, he was okay with that. It was already clear that he fancied the hell out of Sherlock, and had admitted to himself that he did, on a rare occasion fancy blokes in general, but to hear it out loud, stated so plainly… What should have sent him screaming into the night actually felt pretty good.

 

“Let’s do it again, the chatting up bit. You can redeem yourself and so can I,” Sherlock pleaded. “C’mon, give me your worst.” He grinned like he’d just discovered an axe murderer in their shower.

 

John laughed out loud. “No! You can’t put me on the spot like that.” He caught Angelo’s eye from behind the counter, looking like a proud papa while John and Sherlock giggled, which only caused him to blush and giggle even harder. Sherlock kept on until John gave in and pierced him with as serious a stare as he could manage. That shut the man up.

 

“Has anyone ever told you you have perfectly heart shaped lips?” The line was absurd but he tempered the silliness with a heated glance toward said lips, and any thought Sherlock might have had about teasing John seemed to melt away. The man gulped and gave a slight shake of his head. “No? Shame. They’re lovely, your lips. Probably shouldn’t say but I’m curious if they feel as soft as they look. I imagine you’d slap me if I tried, but I’d love to snog you silly, here in front of all these people, just to see how red I can get them. Those heart shaped lips…” He trailed off quietly, staring unabashedly at Sherlock’s now gaping maw.  

 

His teeth clicked loudly as he collected himself. John grinned, sipping casually at the rest of his wine, while Sherlock, feathers ruffling, huffed, “That’s absurd. You already know what it’s like to kiss me. Not more than an hour ago. And last night.” 

 

“Oh love,” John fairly growled, “I was half-asleep and in shock. Let’s see what happens when my full attention is on you, yeah?”

 

Eyes blinked several seconds before Sherlock, apparently having finished his internal dilemma, shot out of his chair and sped off, coat flapping in his wake. 

 

John was only mildly shocked to see him go. He gave the waiter a nod goodbye and ran after his... flatmate? Lover? By the time he caught up, Sherlock was a few blocks down and still gaining speed. John called out but didn’t receive an answer. 

 

“Oi, dickhead,” he called out with a chuckle, “slow down, yeah?” He pulled on Sherlock’s sleeve, only to find himself shoved bodily into a dark lane between the closed shops. 

 

Sherlock slammed him into the brick wall. “There’s a thirty percent chance if I fellate you here the police will be called, how do you feel about those odds, because I find the pros far outweigh the cons, and I think, based on previous deductions, that you might as well, and it’s not as if-”

 

John shut Sherlock up with a kiss, though the man did try, for a few brief seconds, to continue his absurd rant against John’s mouth. 

 

“Not here,” John gasped quickly, “home. It has to be at home.”

 

A frustrated crinkle appeared at the bridge of Sherlock’s nose but he nodded once. Taking John’s hand, he pulled them from the alley and headed quickly toward Baker Street.

 

They giggled like boys as they snuck up the stairs, aware of Mrs Hudson on the other side of the wall. It took some doing but they managed to make it into the sitting room without alerting their landlady or tripping over themselves in their haste to remove coats and shoes. Sherlock didn’t stop there, he continued to disrobe, peeling his jacket, silk shirt, and even trousers, before John could pull his eyes away and focus on removing his own kit. 

 

“Hurry,” Sherlock demanded, “before I lose my bloody nerve.”

 

John wanted to laugh, or demand an explanation, but Sherlock was off, racing toward his bedroom before John had stepped out of his shoes. The sight of Sherlock’s wiggling behind had him hopping frantically out of his trousers and tripping after him. 

 

He found Sherlock already in his bed, in the dark, covered to his chin by the blanket, and barked out a laugh. Sherlock frowned but the sight was too charming, too innocent, to not savour. 

 

“Are you nervous?” John asked, walking further toward the bed to sit.

 

“I- No,” he clipped shortly, though it was obviously a lie. 

 

John petted the curls peeking out, trying to soothe the savage beast. And maybe soothe his own sudden nerves. “You weren’t nervous earlier.”

 

He received a glare. “I’m not nervous. It’s just… When we slow down I have time to think, and then I get myself into trouble with doubts or… Insecurities.”

 

“You’re thinking too much,” John said, understanding. “That’s fine. I can help with that.”

 

He yanked his jumper off, scooting under the blanket to sidle up next to Sherlock’s cool skin. Sherlock hummed and easily wrapped John up in his grasp, pulling until they were huddled together from chin to toe. 

 

John sighed and snuggled in. “This is perfectly fine, you know. We don’t have to do anything else tonight.”

 

“That’s the most absurdly stupid thing you’ve ever said.”

 

He snorted against Sherlock’s chest. “That can’t be true but I suppose you’re right-”

 

“Of course I am.”

 

“-It would be a shame not to pound you into this mattress.”

 

Sherlock made a sound, not unlike being punched in the stomach, and John couldn’t not grin. He pulled back enough to be able to look up at Sherlock. Sure enough, the man was blushing, dark enough to be seen in the light shining in from the frosted door to the loo. His mouth was frozen open in that ‘Oh’ shape that made more than just John think he’d either solved a crime or accidentally soiled himself. 

 

“Like that idea, do you?” John preened, grinning at Sherlock’s answering glare. “We don’t have to, you know. We could lay here and argue over Britain’s Got Talent contestants for all I care.”

 

“John-”

 

“But,” John cut him off with a ‘be patient’ look, “I know we agreed it was about time we got down to business. I just want to let you know… It doesn’t matter what form this takes, yeah? However you want to do this is all right with me.”

 

There wasn’t an answer right away. John glanced up again to see Sherlock’s blank face staring up at the ceiling, though he still idly played with the hairs at the back of John’s head. 

 

“The thing you said, earlier. That.”

 

_ Sherlock, bent nearly in half, long legs wrapped tight around John’s waist while he pounded into him as hard as he could... _

 

Something akin to a growl escaped John’s chest before he reigned it in. “Um, we could do, yeah. I think maybe we should work up to that though.” He slid to the side, resituating their bodies so that he was laying on top with his arms planted to each side of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock himself seemed keen to simply watch, to let John do whatever he saw fit. That was heady. “So, I guess I should ask the embarrassing stuff. Have you-”

 

“Yes.”

 

He gave a quick look for that. “I was  _ going  _ to ask if you’ve enjoyed anal play in the past.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked quickly. “Self-administered, yes.”

 

“Self-adminnnn-” John trailed off into another growl. “Okay, yeah, that’s a conversation for another time. Let’s just,” he let his eyes linger around Sherlock’s concave stomach, “just get to it.”

 

He could tell Sherlock was full of questions but letting his head dip down toward a jutting hipbone cut off any lingering thoughts Sherlock might have shared. Abductor muscles jumped at the first brush of his lips, a hiss of breath when John nipped lightly at the bone. He let his left hand explore the bumps and valleys of Sherlock’s ribcage as his right propped him up enough to reach higher on Sherlock’s chest. He ignored the pink scar, taunting and hateful, to focus on brushing his lips over Sherlock’s heart. Large hands found their way into John’s hair and down his neck to rest tight over his shoulders. He closed his eyes to the sensation of Sherlock exploring as well, savoring the feel of those callused fingers mapping out John’s own scar tissue as casually as possible. 

 

He ran his tongue under the bottom edge of Sherlock's collarbone, gaining a hiss of pleasure. He tasted clean but with a hint of salt. Perfect.

 

As John got carried away, sucking at Sherlock's long, beautiful neck, Sherlock was busy digging his fingers into John's arse and back, trying his hardest to pull John down flush between his legs. Eventually he stopped teasing and did exactly that, causing them both to groan as they slid against one another. He hadn't looked yet, hadn't wanted Sherlock to feel over-exposed, but he had to see.

 

“Beautiful,” he sighed, letting his forehead rest against Sherlock's sternum while he watched them grind filthy and quick against their stomachs. 

 

Sherlock let out another hiss of breath, could have been a yes, John wasn't paying attention. His hand slid around John's side and wedged between them and John nodded frantically in agreement, groaning pitifully as their cocks were wrapped together. 

 

The sight, the smell, the taste, and Christ, especially the sound of Sherlock’s breath as the rutted sent John way past the point of no return entirely too soon. Normally he’d slow down, try to think of the unsexiest thing possible but it couldn’t be done. The build up was to perfect, and just the idea of trying to block Sherlock out was blasphemous. 

 

Turned out he needn’t have worried. 

 

“John, I’m sorry… I can’t...stop… I can’t-”

 

“It’s all right, love,” John kissed every part he could reach, “it’s perfect, don’t stop.”

 

“John!” Sherlock cried out, broken and breathless, digging his nails deep into John’s arse, and it was enough for John. They went off together, swelling and spilling over against each other like perfectly timed demolitions. John’s blood felt super heated under his skin and there was a distinct possibility that he made an embarrassing noise there at the end. 

 

After a long moment Sherlock asked, “Did you?”

 

“Absolutely did, yeah.”

 

“Sorry, I was a bit distracted.”

 

“Understandable.”

 

He hummed, slowly letting go of their softening members, hissing a bit at the sensation. His sharp hipbones twisted under John, so he wiggled further up and to the left side, sliding back down onto the bed with a grunt. 

 

“You’ve smeared semen all over.”

 

John chuckled at Sherlock’s disgruntled tone. “So I have.” He pecked the closest bit of skin, a pale shoulder, because he could. “You know, sex is quite messy. Something to think about, you know, for future reference.”

 

“Yes,” he snapped back before reigning himself in, “yes. I’m aware. I was just...saying.” 

 

Things went quiet for a bit. Sherlock dabbed at his stomach with a corner of the loose sheet. John might normally have worked himself up into a fit, but the silence wasn’t awkward, didn’t need to be filled. He found he was content to simply lay next to Sherlock and feel him breathe, rub his cheek against an arm, fiddle with the curl that lay against his neck. 

 

Sherlock eventually mumbled, “I’m sorry we didn’t-” He coughed. “That we didn’t… Stick to the plan, as it were.”

 

“Stop apologizing,” John said. “It was perfect. We don’t need a plan.”

 

“But I always have a plan.”

 

John cackled loudly. “Yes and those always turn out so well!”

 

“Oh! I’ll have you know I had an entire script for how this night was supposed to go and you-”

 

John rolled back on top and shut him up with a kiss. He pulled back far enough to whisper, “Yeah I’ve thought of some scripts as well over the years.” Laying several more kisses on Sherlock’s perfectly shaped lips, he went on, “You, a length of rope, and maybe a gag.”

 

“Never.”

 

“Maybe play a little ‘Posh Bloke and his Bit of Rough?’”

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

 

“Or do you want more of a ‘Captain and the Private’ kinda thing?” Sherlock’s hips kicked up minutely and John grinned. “Gotcha.” 

 

“Shut up!”

 

John couldn’t stop laughing. He grabbed Sherlock by the thigh and rolled with him until they were tangled in a heap on the floor, both giggling like idiots while Mrs Hudson banged on the ceiling, yelling for them to keep it down. 

 

They giggled and shushed each other before settling. Sherlock was sporting the kind of blush usually only seen on Victorian maids and John could not be more in love. He thought of every time Sherlock said or did something that made John want to pull him down for a kiss and the pain, both miniscule and horrendous, being unable to has caused. He let out a breath of blessed relief. 

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, still smiling. 

  
John answered with a kiss. Because he could.


	5. Happy Birthday! reprised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, _really,_ not good, Sherlock!

“It doesn’t mean you’re the subservient partner, John.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I’m only trying to reassure you-”

 

“Shut up. Fuck.”

 

“I can tell you still have some lingering-”

 

“Sherlock,” John snapped, halting the motion of his hips, “I swear if you do not shut up, I’ll never let you fuck me again.”

 

Sherlock gave a great and powerful pout, full lip out and everything, silently agreeing to leave it be. It took less than a second for him to mumble, “Technically, you’re fucking me.”

 

“That’s goddamn right,” John agreed, lifting himself back up and slamming down. His knees went back to making obscene noises on the sofa alongside the squelching of Sherlock’s cock up his arse. Sherlock went back to snapping up to meet him. He’d gotten good at this, the giving instead of receiving. Lord knew it had taken John long enough to capitulate. if five days was ‘long enough’. Sherlock seemed to think it was. After some trial and error, they had managed to find a position that pleased them both, and pleased John was, as long as Sherlock wasn’t playing therapist during the act itself. 

 

He was just getting to that point where he remembered he had a cock that had been neglected for far too long, when the unthinkable happened.

 

If John hadn’t buried his head in Sherlock’s neck, if Sherlock wasn’t grunting so loud it drowned everything else out, they might have heard the sound of someone jogging up the stairs. 

 

“Oi, lads, I hope you don’t mind but-”

 

Greg stopped talking.

 

John stopped breathing.

 

Time stopped ticking.

 

Sherlock, oblivious, didn’t stop fucking. 

 

Until John scrambled off his lap with a bleat of horrified embarrassment and Sherlock looked up to see Greg wide-eyed in shock in their kitchen doorway. Because while they’d remembered to close the sitting room door, the kitchen door had apparently been left open for detective inspectors to wander in.  

 

“What?” Greg drawled slowly, still staring.

 

John snatched his pants and yanked them on- made even more awkward by the fact that he was still hard- and tossed a pillow over Sherlock’s still gleaming cockstand. 

 

“Birthday sex,” the blighter announced before John could say a word. 

 

Greg gaped. 

 

An ache behind his left eye had John pressing his fingers to the socket. “Greg, I’ll meet you, yeah? Sir Richard Steele’s on Haverstock.”

 

Greg finally started backing out. “Right. I’ll, uh…. Right.”

 

It stayed quiet in the flat for almost a full minute after the street door shut. John was honestly surprised Sherlock had managed that long.

 

“Does that mean we’re done? Because.” The man merely moved the pillow to showcase his still impressive erection. 

 

“I hate you,” John growled as he worked his pants back off.

 

~*~

  
  
  
  


Great. Just bloody fantastic. There were definitely more people at this ridiculous celebration than he’d planned. Word must’ve spread. Not that he’d have minded but forty-four was hardly an age worth this level of celebration, and considering the way today had already played out...  

Mike saw him first, nodding to the bartender to say that he’d be round when his order was filled. Molly and her new beau- Connor John thought he remembered correctly- were seated next to Mike’s wife. Even Anderson sat in the corner, nursing a pint by himself. 

 

Unfortunately, it was Greg who approached first, slapping John on the back and handing him his first beer of the night. 

 

“You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” John asked, eyes closed against the inevitable. 

 

Greg chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me. mate. Well, depending on how drunk I get.”

 

“Cheers,” John said drily. He took his first gulp of the night, seeking oblivion.

 

“So... Birthday sex, eh?” Greg teased, grinning around his own pint. 

 

John cringed, eyeing the blocked front door in regret. “Yeah, uh… Not how I would have had you find out but, um…”

 

Greg leaned in with a twinkle in his eye and mumbled, “Congratulations, mate,” like he meant it.

 

Sherlock swanned in, breaking through the packed crowd surrounding the door, stole John’s beer directly from his hand, gulping a third of it down before John could even answer. “Are you two talking about me?” 

 

Greg gave a rough sigh and looked back at John. “Or should I say my condolences.”

 

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

 

“It’s hardly my fault he walked in during birthday sex-”

 

“Would you stop calling it that.”

 

“-he was supposed to meet us here, not at the flat.”

 

Greg’s hand came up in defence. “Whoa, John said meet up for a pint, he didn’t even tell me where. What was I supposed to think?”

 

“Anything at all would be better than your usual,” Sherlock quipped, earning a backhand in the shoulder from John.

 

John dryly pointed out that he had meant to finish the text with the location but  _ someone  _ had distracted him, which was when Greg made his escape, allowing Mike to approach and wish him a happy birthday. After that, they managed to get the party situated in the back room, a somewhat more subdued area of the pub, for a game of cards. The number of players fluctuated, but all in all it was a fairly evenly matched night throughout. Sherlock wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was, mostly because he continued to imbibe well into the night and after his fourth pint lost the plot entirely. Molly turned out to be a sharp eye, calling bluffs that even John had hesitated to call. Sherlock and John both seemed to notice that Greg had it out for Molly’s boyfriend which was both hilarious and sad, in Sherlock’s opinion. John thought it was sweet. If things didn’t work out between Molly and Connor, he’d have to pull Molly aside and tell her she had a secret admirer. 

 

Though they hadn’t exactly discussed coming out to their friends, Greg’s accidental discovery would remain locked firmly in John’s Do-Not-Think-About file, they weren’t really trying to keep it under wraps. Sherlock would occasionally turn to whisper something into John’s ear, making him giggle. Once, John leaned over to say something to Mike, placing his hand on Sherlock’s thigh to balance. No one came out and asked but it was obvious everyone had picked up on the closeness between them. 

 

“Lestrade is going to burst before the end of the night,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear late into the night. 

 

“Yeah?” John murmured, more distracted by Sherlock’s curls at his temple than the words.  

 

“Oh, yes. And Molly has definitely noticed your wandering hands.”

 

“Think she’ll notice this?” John teased, running his left hand a bit higher up Sherlock’s warm thigh. 

 

“Yes.” He was trying to play it cool, but his cheeks went a deeper shade of pink than they’d been a second ago. John suddenly wanted to see how red he would go before he broke. His thumb dipped lower, tracing the seam of Sherlock’s bespoke trousers. 

 

“John,” Molly called, and they both jumped like school boys caught out in the back of class. But she went on to ask, “What did you get for your birthday?”

 

“Oh, um,” he licked his lips, “my sister got me some new jumpers.”

 

“Hideous,” Sherlock pointed out. 

 

Molly frowned at him but looked to John to continue so he did. “Sherlock’s parents sent us tickets to Hamilton.”

 

“Jesus Christ!” Laurie, Mike’s wife shouted, startling everyone. “How?! Those have been sold out since they went on sale!”

 

“I- Uh, I didn’t ask actually,” John said, looking to Sherlock, who simply answered that ‘they knew people’. The discussion turned to the play, which John had heard of, naturally, but hadn’t exactly been over the moon when presented the impossible to get tickets. Laurie seemed to be a big fan, so she explained the nuances of it to the group. Afterward, Greg cocked his head in John’s direction and pointed with his beer.

 

“Oi, you didn’t tell everyone about Sherlock’s gift.”

 

“Oh!” John was excited to tell them, until he realized it was absurd and no one would believe him. 

 

Sherlock cut off John’s admittedly non-verbal reply with, “It’s an antique Remington typewriter. Mostly useless.”

 

“It’s gorgeous and I love it,” John argued, though to what end he didn’t know. 

 

“That’s not the best part,” Greg announced. “Sherlock told John the typewriter was magical, you know, granted wishes and that. So John wishes for a case and I set them up with this elaborate smuggling caper... ”

 

Greg trailed off lamely when Sherlock stood, walking backwards away from John’s forward march. Everyone seemed to be stumped as to why John was turning red and fuming.

 

“Ohhh,” Greg drawled. “He didn’t know it was fake.”

 

John smiled. 

 

Sherlock gulped. 

 

“You could have told me at any time. You could have told me it was fake. You let me think you were being brainwashed for no reason! Why?”

 

Sherlock pouted. “You wouldn’t have believed me at that point! You were convinced it was real.”

 

“I would have believed Greg! Why didn’t you just call him up and have him tell me?” Sherlock, who had bumped into the doorway at that point, looked flustered. “Well?”

 

“Honestly, I forgot all about Lestrade by then.”

 

“Typical,” Greg mumbled. 

 

John flexed his fingers, ready to pounce. 

 

“Wait!” Sherlock put up his hands. “In my defense, I was trying to get you into bed, and that took up nearly all of my cognitive skill. Isn’t that flattering enough?”

 

Everyone shouted, for probably different reasons, as John barreled into Sherlock’s chest, taking them both to the floor. 

  
“They’re fine. Let them work it out themselves,” Greg mumbled into his pint while everyone rushed to pull John off of Sherlock. “I haven’t had _that_ kind of birthday sex in twenty years, they’re going to be just fine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments give life! The curious can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


End file.
